


Pumpkin Eater

by Lierdumoa



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cockblocking, F/M, Implied Stalking, Implied Underage Sex, Implied Voyeurism, M/M, PackMom!Stiles, awkward family dinner, backhanded compliments, bamf!Lydia, failwolf!Derek, implied dub/non-con, implied everything, implied oedipal issues, off-color humor, pansexual!Peter, sassy!peter, sociopath!Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lierdumoa/pseuds/Lierdumoa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter heard there was a housewarming at the newly renovated Hale estate. Don't worry. He invited himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pumpkin Eater

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for the Teen Wolf Fanfiction Contest. Thanks to Ladyw1nter for beta'ing.

For all that Peter is a werewolf, and a born one at that, he often feels as though he has spent his entire life standing at thresholds like a vampire, waiting for an invitation.

Today the threshold in question is the door to the McCall residence. It’s five o’clock in the afternoon. He counts two heartbeats in the house. Scott is finishing a call to the hospital, letting his mother know he’ll be back no later than eight thirty. By his tone Peter suspects that estimate is somewhat optimistic. Stiles is in the kitchen humming to himself. Peter can hear the muted crinkle of saran wrap and the clink of ceramic. That and the ginger ale chilling in the back seat of Stiles’ jeep are enough to confirm Peter’s suspicions.

He’s just in time, then.

He rings the bell, smirking at the audible stutter in each boy’s heartbeat. He hears Scott approaching and takes care to school his expression into the very picture of politeness. He brushes a speck of lint from his coat, and waits.

It doesn’t take long for Scott’s brain to catch up with his senses and register Peter’s presence.

“What are you doing here?” Scott spits, jerking the door open with a savage twist of the knob.

Peter bares his teeth amiably, the way humans often do. It’s not quite a smile, but hardly anyone ever notices the difference. “Good afternoon Scott. Won't you let me come in?”

“No.”

Oh, the belligerence of youth.

Peter sighs audibly. Scott's mother was never such a difficult case. Peter can recall with perfect clarity his first encounter with her. He'd found Melissa sitting at a table in the hospital cafeteria on her dinner break, eyelids heavy, chin in palm. She had looked positively tragic sitting all alone in that plastic chair. For a split second he forgot his agenda entirely, moving toward her as if compelled. Even now he can recall the way her lashes cast the loveliest of shadows, and how under the chalky layer of her stale concealer Peter could just barely make out the tracery of veins that marked the bags under her eyes, like hairline cracks on an ill treated oil painting.

Peter is very good at finding cracks.

“Fair enough,” he replies. “I have a message for Derek. You’re heading over for the housewarming, I take it?”

The pack – that is to say, what’s left of it – is celebrating the renovation of the old Hale estate. Now that the hunters have cleared off the property Derek’s been putting the damage payout from the fire to good use. He’s going to need more than a mansion, however, if he wants his wayward betas back.

“None of your business,” Scott growls.

“Well, technically, my name is still on the deed, so it’s at least partly my business.” Thanks to the small matter of Peter never having been declared legally dead he still has rights to the Hale estate, even if he's lost out on most of the insurance money thanks to years of brain damage.

“Wise choice, by the way,” Peter adds, flaring his nostrils and nodding towards the kitchen, “putting Stiles in charge of the food. I daresay Derek’s cooking is liable to burn the house down all over again.”

Scott looks vaguely appalled at Peter's words. Then again, doesn't he always?

The joke, albeit in poor taste, disarms Scott enough to make him release his vise grip on the door.

“In all seriousness, though,” Peter goes on to say, “I have a message I’d like you to pass on to Derek.”

Legalities notwithstanding, Derek is within his rights to insist that Peter remove himself from Beacon Hills entirely. The word of the alpha supersedes human laws. It’s curious that he hasn’t, and Peter’s not sure whether to take this leeway Derek has granted him as magnanimity, strategy or a sign of general incompetence. Either way, Peter finds himself reluctant to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.

"Tell him that errand he has me running is taking longer than anticipated. I might not be by until eight or nine o’clock."

Peter turns to leave, then pauses to throw one last remark over his shoulder. "And save me some ribs, won't you?"

 

. ~ • ~ .

 

The errand is a reconnaissance mission. Boyd and Erica are Derek’s primary concern. He’s entrusted Peter with finding out whether they’re dead or alive. After three days of looking, Peter has followed their scents to a gated community on the west end of town. He stays upwind, closing in on his targets with wide, careful circles. The alphas are arrogant. They’ve made no effort to disguise their presence.  He smells the two betas among them and the scents are fresh – alive, then.

Derek’s second most pressing concern is a bit short-sighted, in Peter’s opinion. He’s overly invested in knowing whether the young betas are in the company of the alpha pack by choice or by force. That question is more difficult to answer. Peter smells fear in among their scents, but the smells are too intermingled for Peter to draw any firm conclusions.

A quick survey of the area tells Peter that this particular housing development has become something of a foreclosure trap over the past decade. It’s isolated enough to make for a serviceable base of operations.

The alphas are settling in.

The question, of course, is whether they’re looking to squat, or looking to buy. Beyond their obvious physical advantages, the alpha pack is older. Old enough to have college degrees. Old enough to have their finances in order. If they’re looking to buy, that means they have resources. Unfortunately it will take more digging than Peter can do in a single evening to find out exactly how thoroughly Derek and his little band of wayward orphans have been outclassed.

He smells the change in the wind before he feels it. His time is up. It will be difficult to avoid the alphas if they catch his scent now, and Peter tries to keep two or three steps ahead whenever possible.

He turns around and heads off towards his family home.

 

. ~ • ~ .

 

Scott is outside when he arrives, along with Isaac, Jackson and Lydia. They’re standing around a now empty barbecue, watching the sun tip over the horizon. He’s nearly on top of them before they notice him. No one is particularly surprised at his presence, however, so either Scott or Derek has informed everyone of his incipient arrival. Even Lydia does little more than still momentarily, and curl more tightly into Jackson’s embrace. He’d think she hadn’t noticed him at all if not for the goose bumps springing up over her forearms.

Peter glances around at the four of them and lets his ears prick towards the interior of the house. He turns to Scott. "Was the lovely Allison not invited? I must have a word with my nephew."

"She’s got her own family to worry about." Scott says, though the way his face crumples screams “break-up.”

Peter frowns in a mimicry of sympathy. "A shame, really. And here we have all these newly remodeled rooms just ripe for Christening."

Lydia tightens her hand around Jackson’s bicep, clutching so hard her fingers turn white. She knows every room in this house, of course. Peter gave her the grand tour months ago, his post hypnotic suggestions plucking her from her hospital bathroom, drawing her out naked into the wilderness and leading her through the ruins. Lydia’s not here for the housewarming, or for the pack, or for Jackson. She’s here to face a demon.

Peter tilts his head toward her in acknowledgement, and winks.

The sudden tension is enough to make Scott’s hackles rise. His face flushes. He’s mere seconds away from his next rage induced verbal ejaculation when the door to the house swings open. “Peter,” Derek snaps, “stop giving them ideas. Everyone inside.”

Derek strides purposefully back through the entryway. Peter makes his way towards the door after him. Within moments the rest of them are following behind Peter like a prisoner escort.

The house is sparsely decorated. It’s unsurprising, really. Derek has always been something of a minimalist. He gestures everyone towards the kitchen, where Stiles is sealing leftovers under cellophane. Most of the food is gone, but from what’s left of it Peter can tell that the original spread was, in a word, extravagant.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Quite the caterer, I see.” He grabs a plate and scoops what looks like acorn squash onto a plate, followed by green bean casserole. Lydia and Jackson take this as a sign that they’re no longer needed and head off toward the nearest bathroom. Peter continues moving down the table, ignoring the incredulous looks that Isaac, Scott and Stiles are giving him. The ribs are all gone, of course. Peter wonders where Scott might have inherited such a spiteful streak. It certainly wasn’t from Melissa.

The dessert plate gives him pause. “Lemon meringue pie, from scratch. A Hale family tradition. Stiles you've undone yourself.”

"Outdone," he corrects, narrow eyed.

“Isn't that what I said? If you’re trying to get on Derek’s good side, you’re doing a marvelous job of it.”

Stiles’ cheeks flush with embarrassment, and a generous helping of indignation. The effect is surprisingly fetching. Stiles snaps his head around to pin Derek with a glare. “I don’t see why Peter Psychopath Hale has to be here,” he snaps at Derek. “There are these things. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them. They’re called phones?”

“He can lie to me over the phone,” Derek answers.

Stiles opens his mouth, then closes it with a scowl. “Okay, fair enough,” Stiles says. “I’m going to the den. Let me know when he leaves.” Stiles storms out of the of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Ten seconds later Stiles yells out, “And don’t let him have any pie!”

Peter smirks in the direction of Stiles’ exclamation, then turns back to Derek, who is pinching the bridge of his nose, wearing an aggrieved expression. “So,” Peter says lightly, “onto business. Your betas are alive.”

Derek looks sharply up at him with a nearly tremulous expression. He gives Peter a long, measuring look before allowing his shoulders to slump with relief. “That’s good to hear,” he says.

Isaac perks up in the corner of Peter’s eye. Scott remains silent.

“They’re alive,” Peter continues, “and they’re the least of your problems. The alphas have found a permanent home for themselves. They’re settling in. They want this territory, Derek. Your territory. They'll be seeking employment, claiming strategic positions in the community. The mayors office, perhaps, or law enforcement.”

“Interesting theory.”

“It wouldn’t hurt for you to get a job yourself. Really, Derek, at this point you couldn’t be less decorative if you tried.”

“Your opinion is noted,” Derek grits out.

“We need to establish what kind of resources they have available to them. I’m going to need my laptop back. Some surveillance equipment would be helpful. And a car.”

“You’re asking me for a car?”

Peter looks at him.

Derek sighs. “Write a list of the equipment you need and give it to Stiles. He’ll track it down for you.”

“What a good little hausfrau you’ve made of him.”

Derek refuses to acknowledge the comment. “You can borrow Jackson’s car during school hours,” he continues, ignoring the loud, “Hey!” Jackson yells in response. “Your laptop’s upstairs.”

 

. ~ • ~ .

 

Peter takes time collecting his things. It’s a good opportunity to take stock. He stretches out his senses through each room and hallway, searching out soft vowels as they echo through microscopic cracks in the woodwork.

He can hear Lydia and Jackson kissing in a darkened hallway near the garage. It’s a vivid reminder of the weeks Peter spent caught in the purgatory between death and rebirth, wading through the amniotic bath of Lydia’s sense memories. He has walked in her skin. He has felt the gluey slick of lip gloss pressed between strange mouths. He knows the way the briny scent of pool water barely covers the oddly pungent musk of a boy in rut.

It’s all too easy to picture her taking Jackson's lips between her teeth and scoring at his flesh with her fingernails. Jackson’s newfound invulnerability must seem like an invitation to violence. Lydia has always been a vicious lover – positively carnivorous. It's something she and Peter have in common.

Scott, meanwhile, is playing video games with Isaac in the den, waiting for Stiles to finish the little domestic he’s having with Derek in the kitchen. Now isn’t that interesting. Peter shoves his laptop into it’s bag and heads back down the stairs, eavesdropping shamelessly.

“…all he did, you’re asking me to trust him? Are you _insane_?”

“I'm not asking you to trust him. I'm asking you to trust me. I’m trying to make sure no one gets hurt, alright? ”

“A minute ago I was stepping on your toes and now I’m underfoot?” Stiles shouts, voice cracking over the last word.

Peter sidles up to the entryway for a better view of the proceedings. They’re standing in front of the sink, and the pheromone stink of Derek’s desperation is so strong Peter thinks even Stiles should be able to smell it.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Derek replies, lips twisting around some unnamed emotion, muscle hunched over muscle to hide the cower in the curve of his spine. His heart is beating like a scared rabbit.

They’re silent for a long moment.

“I didn’t thank you,” Derek says. “For bringing all the food. And putting up with Peter.” His hands are balled up in his front pockets, hips cocked in challenge, or perhaps in invitation. It's always so hard to tell with Derek.

“And putting up with you,” Stiles replies, teasingly. He’s wetting and re-wetting his lips, staring up at Derek in something that's not quite fear, blushing and twitter-pated.

They're standing far too close for propriety's sake.

“Am I interrupting?” Peter asks, gleefully ruining the moment.

Derek steps back as if scalded. Stiles turns toward Peter and glares murderously.

“I have that list ready,” Peter adds helpfully, holding a piece of paper aloft.

Stiles stalks over and snatches the list out of his hands with enough force to tear. “There’s this thing,” Stiles grits out. “Called. E-mail.” He stalks out of the kitchen, heading towards the den to collect Scott for the drive home.

Peter turns to Derek with a bemused expression and finds him dragging a palm down his face so hard it’s a wonder he’s not leaving marks.

Peter purses his lips thoughtfully. “I’ll just let myself out, then,” he says

“You do that,” Derek responds, not bothering to look up.

 

. ~ • ~ .

 

Lydia is waiting for him outside.

“You’re planning something,” she says, a steely glint in her eye. “Something to do with the alpha pack.”

“Where’s Jackson?”

“I told him to wait for me in the car. Don’t change the subject.”

Peter spreads his arms in a show of openness. “I have been as transparent with my plans as I know how to be. Ask Derek. He’s an excellent lie detector.”

“He’s a terrible chess player,” Lydia replies. “I’m not.”

Sometimes Peter likes to think that he loves Lydia. The affection he feels for her is strange. Unfamiliar. He suspects he felt a similar affection for Laura, the night he watched the light fade from her eyes. 

He loves Lydia the way sepsis loves a wound. 

And yet, she stands before him, unwounded and unspoiled. He has gestated within her flesh but she bears no marks. Peter has filled the curve of her soul like a web fingered fetus. He has stretched her beyond all conceivable human limits and somehow she has born the swell of him, flesh un-torn.

They say that giving birth is like trying to piss out an apple.

He arches an eyebrow towards her. “We have a complicated history, Ms. Martin. I hope you’re not letting your fear of me cloud your judgment.”

She tightens her lips, small hands curling into fists around her butternut orange manicure. “The only thing you made me afraid of was myself. If any of us get hurt because of you, ever again, I will make you regret it. Consider this your first and final warning.”

A burned bridge requires a great deal of time and finesse to rebuild, and Peter has neither at this  current moment. For now, he can do little more than nod in acknowledgement and watch her walk away. Her red hair catches in the wind as she heads to Jackson’s car and for a moment, the scent of her is so clear and sharp he can taste it in the back of his throat. Something like nostalgia roils in his gut.

He leaves the way he came, glancing at his watch. It’s ten thirty, and high time he found a bed for the night. He has an interview in the morning, and he’s going to need his beauty rest to make a proper show of it. Apparently the high school is looking for a worthy candidate to fill the position of interim principal.

He follows the river, heading towards the main road. There’s a motel just a few miles away. Alone now at the Hale estate, Peter’s foolish nephew loads dishware into a drying rack as if cleaning the kitchen will somehow keep his ragged little pack from shattering into pieces like cheap ceramic on his still unvarnished hardwood floor. Somewhere on the other side of town, Melissa is snoring softly in her bed, no amount of sleep enough to clear the dark circles out from under her eyes.

The whole world is cracked straight through the middle and soon the chasm will split open, leaving more than enough room for a man to slip through, and perhaps even fit a few bodies in the crawlspace behind him.

Peter stands at the threshold, waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> <http://lierdumoa.tumblr.com>


End file.
